


Catharsis

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Markiplier - RPF, Markiplier - YouTube RPF
Genre: BDSM, Biting, Blood, Caning, Desperation, Emotional Sadism, Flogging, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Pain, Role Play Gore, Sadism, Violence, Violent Language, Vomit Mention, catharisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7159880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have a hidden core of something. Mark helps you get in touch with yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

"Are you absolutely sure about this?" You stand in front of him, shifting from foot to foot. The leather of the flogger dances across your leg, giving you a few shivers. 

"I'm a big boy. I can take it." Mark flexes, waggling his eyebrows at you. You crack a bit of a grin, although you're still anxious. 

"But are you _sure_...?" You fidget the flogger some more, the fall pitter patting across the floor. 

Mark puts a hand on your shoulder, staring deeply into you eyes. "It's okay," he says, smiling at you. "I'm consenting. Full consent. Green. Green as fucking... I dunno, a green thing." 

"Even for... well, everything?" You fiddle with your fingers, combing your fingers through the flogger's fall, ostensibly to detangle it, mainly so you're doing something with your fingers. 

"All the stuff we talked about," Mark says, indicating the assortment of stuff on the chair next to you both. 

"Fair," you say. and hadn't that been an awkward conversation? 

"So I'm ready." He spreads his arms out in front of him, the light glancing off of his bare skin, the light from the lamp making your glasses shiny. 

You take a deep breath. "Okay," you say. You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down a bit. You can do this. You've done bits and pieces of this kind of thing before - you've gone even more intense, with someone else. But not Mark. Mark has always struck you as more... fragile. 

"Well? Are you gonna just stand there while I look pretty? 'cause I could have just done that with a shirt on." Mark smirks at you cheekily. 

"I'm getting my bearings," you tell him, and you shove him into the bedroom wall, your arm on the back of his neck. You may have to tiptoe a bit to do that, but nobody has to know that. "Now...."

The flogger is soft against the back of his legs. It's a new one - something full of thud, with a gorgeous handle in your favorite color. It was a gift from Mark. You position him right, fiddling around so that you can find the spot where you won't catch a light fixture or a piece of furniture on the back swing. You can see Mark tense up, and you smirk. 

"You looking forward to this?" You try to keep your voice light and teasing. That's important. You always have to make sure you're light and teasing, make sure you're chill. You can't ever get too intense about this stuff. You don't want to scare him. Even though he's said he's hard to scare.

"I did get you the flogger," Mark says, although he's more talking to his arms. "Me getting it would kind of imply that I wanted you to use it." His whole back is breaking out in goosebumps, and you almost want to delay hitting him some more, just watching him sit there, nervous for the first blow. 

"Fair," you say amicably, and then you swish your wrist back and hit him with the flogger. You're aiming for his shoulder blade, and you go a little low, but there's a nice red mark when you pull it back. "How was that?"

"Very thuddy," he says, relaxing some. "It's not, like, made of sting like your other one. Thank god." He presses his face into his arms, widening his stance more. He's relaxing. Can't really be having that, can we? 

"That's why you got me this thing, isn't it?" Your arm arcs out, landing a hit on the other side, and you begin to hit him in earnest. It's not as easy as it is with the other one. 

"I'm not saying a thing. Okay, ow, that was my kidney, you're aiming low." Mark winces away, turning around to face you. 

"Shit, sorry," you say guiltily. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Nah," he says, turning around to rest his forehead on his crossed arms, leaning into the wall. "Just try to aim a bit better, maybe?"

"Hmm...." You press yourself against him, grabbing his ass almost as an afterthought, squeezing it through the thin fabric of his red boxers. "I need something to aim for if I do that," you say, stroking the spots where you were hitting him. The skin is hot and pink, heading towards red. 

"I'm not getting the paint out," he says. "That would take forever to - oh!" He curls forward, gasping, as your teeth sink into the meaty part of his shoulder, right by the shoulder blade. He's crying out in pain, from the strength of your jaws and the pain that's no doubt filling him up like water in a glass. “Fuck you already got that sp _ot_ fuck!” 

“Much better,” you say, kissing the spot. There's a tiny bit of blood in the cut, and you'd be worried if you didn't already... swap fluids, as it were. 

“G-glad you enjoyed that,” Mark mumbles, then gasps again, because you're biting him on the other side, holding him closer as you suck and worry a bit with your teeth. “'cause I'm not entirely sure if I am or not.”

“There you go!” You press your thumb into the middle of the bruise, right between your teeth marks, where a hickey is starting to form.

Mark whimpers, and you like that sound. There's a piece of something inside of you that twists and growls, something you try to keep buried most of the time. Once in a blue moon, you let it poke its nose out (metaphorically), but this is... this is gonna be different. 

You press between his shoulder blades, forcing him back against the wall. He rests his forehead against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Fuuck, that hurts,” he mumbles, but there's a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Fuck me with a rusty fucking saw.” 

“I'm not done yet,” you say casually, slapping him on one of the bite marks. When he yelps, you smirk, smugness radiating off of you as you take a step back, You raise the flogger, and go back to hitting him. It's a steady thud-thud-thud, and his shoulders are turning red. You don't know if he's got an erection yet, but honestly, you don't really care. It's good to be able to let loose like this, feel the strength fall across your arm, aiming for the purple spots on his shoulders. 

You're not sure how long it's been, but there's a bit of sweat dripping down your back, between your shoulder blades. You're glad you're not wearing a shirt for any of this – it would be sticking to you by now. All you're really wearing is a pair of old shorts, and it feels good to let your skin air out, while the muscles in your arm stretches. 

“Um,” says Mark, and he taps on the wall to get your attention. “I think I've had enough of that for now?” He's breathing heavily, his voice a bit choked up. “I mean, unless you really wanna keep going. I could probably take a bit more.” 

“Are you done in general?” You come closer to him, to admire the redness of his back. It's going to be sore in the morning. Hell, it's going to be sore in ten minutes or so. Welts are beginning to develop, where individual strands of the flogger struck particular parts. 

“Nah,” he pants. “Although I could use a glass of water, and maybe my back could take a break. Check if there's skin left.” He leans against you a bit, then squalls when you press your thumb into the bite mark you made previously, smirking. 

“How about your ass? Or your thighs?” You run your hand down from his neck to right over the top of his boxers. It's setting off something in you, but it's not exactly arousal. There's arousal mixed in there, to be sure, but it's not all that's there. Something deeper. Something nastier. Something with more teeth. 

“Yeah, those are feeling pretty chill,” he says. He stretches with his arms over his head, wincing a bit at the way it makes his skin go taut, exacerbating the bruises. “What with the lack of beating induced heat and whatnot.” His banter is a little less snappy than before. Maybe from the throbbing in his back. 

“I'm amazed that bits of your body have independent thought,” you quip, rummaging through the pile of toy that are piled up in the big, comfy chair. 

"What can I say? I'm a man of many talents." He looks down at the chair, seeing which implement you're choose. He looks at the assortment on the chair, trying to be sneaky. "So, uh, what are the plans for the next round? Could it possibly be ice cream and puppies?”

You pick up a lucite cane, raising an eyebrow at him. "I was thinking caning. It'd be hard to hit you with ice cream and puppies.”

"Where...? I don't think I can take any bastinado." When you glance down, you see that his toes are curling into the hardwood floor. “and knowing you, you'd find some creative way to torture me.” He wriggles his butt insolently. “Although I'm gonna call a red on the ice cream. No ice cream, except in my tummy.” 

"What if I force fed it to ya?” You fiddle with the cane, getting used to the weight of it.

“Maybe next time,” he says. “But my feetsies are not up for the beatings.”

“Aw, you had so much fun last time," you tease, poking him in the back again, on the bite mark. His back is turning a bit purple. That's always fun. You should mark his neck up some, make him have to put makeup on the next time he does a video. 

“You're right, actually. After the screaming agony, I got to stay off my feet for two days.” There's more insolence in his voice, and it triggers something in your head. You don't know how you feel about it, but it fills you with energy. Complicated energy.

"Arms up," you snap, turning on your Top voice. You smirk at how quickly his arms go to the back of his head. It's always nice when he's quick to react. Certain voices seem to skip straight to the lizard brain. 

"This is gonna suck," he says philosophically, then he howls, because you've just made the cane swish through the air, landing it on his ass with a deceptively quiet crack. 

"I really love this thing," you say, tapping it along his ass through his underwear. When you look up, you can see his hands clenching in his hair, breathing heavily. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, a few beads of it dripping down his back. 

"I don't think I do," Mark says through clenched teeth, gasping as you whip it back, hitting him again. "Fuuuuuuuuck," he groans, "you keep hitting the same spot! Yeah, I really don't like that thing. Fuuuuck.”

He can't see you smiling, but he can probably hear it. "I know," you say cheerfully, hitting him again. It becomes a rhythm, and you get consumed in it. You don't need to talk, you don't need to really. After ten more hits with the cane, you pause, because his knees are starting to shake. 

His expletives are certainly creative – your personal favorite is is “fuckadillo” - that one is good enough you have to pause, then hit him harder. That manages to shut him enough to just scream, scream until you hear his throat give.

"Mark?" You try to swim back up, go from being his sadist to his supporting partner. Your hand is on his shoulder, and yeah, he is shaking. 

"H-hi," Mark gasps out, looking over his shoulder at you. He's not crying, but there is definitely a dampness in his eyes. His lips are red and swollen, where he's been biting them. “Why'd ya stop?”

"How you doing?" You grab his ass, feeling the heat from it through his shorts. You like the way he gasps when you poke the welts. 

"I can take more," he says. "I just don't think I can keep standing like this. All the beating, kinda, y'know, uh..." He's lost some of his eloquence.

"Do you want to put your arms down, or do you want to lie on the bed?" You stroke his back now, feeling the knobs of his spine under your knuckles. 

"Can I lie on the bed?" He leans against the wall, breathing heavily. "and you keep hitting the same spot. How do you do that? Have you got some kind of hidden talent you could market?" 

"It's a talent, although I don't know how marketable," you say lightly. "and there is a solution to that, you know!" 

"Yeah?" He walks to the bed, still shaking a bit. He basically face plants on the bed, groaning theatrically. “Am I gonna hate this solution?”

"Yep!" You grab his underwear by the waist, pulling them down around his ankles. His ass is a welter of angry red lines, the welts beginning to rise. "Now I can see what I'm doing!"

Mark groans again, but he doesn't protest as you pull his underwear off his ankles, "You are very mean," he says accusingly, albeit muffled. “You are like, the meanest meanie that ever meaned. In mean-land.”

"I know," you say cheerfully, stepping back to give yourself more range of motion. "You ready?" 

"Please don't hit my balls," Mark says, a hint of panic in his voice as he rearranges things. “and I'm as ready as I can be for ass stinging horror. 

"I don't want you to throw up on the sheets," you say, bringing back the cane, then bringing it whistling down onto his ass. 

"Fuck! and that was o-one time," he gasps, shifting against the bed. It's not obvious if he's turned on or just wriggly, but it doesn't really matter. You're getting a reaction, and you can feel that dark bit of you peeking out of the back of your head. “You lose your lunch _one time_ and you never live it down!”

"If you do, I'll make you do the laundry," you tell him, and you bring the cane down again, lower this time, getting his sensitive thighs. 

Mark howls into the bed and writhes under you. He jerks away after each hit, but sets himself back in place. He's a good Bottom like that. A good boy. You can hear him gasping for breath, though, and it makes you grin wider. “Fuck, fuck, that stings, how does that sting so badly, what the fuck, I can't even think of... fuck!”

In what feels like no time at all, his ass and thighs are red, verging towards purple, and you're swishing away, landing hit after hit. The rhythm of it is soothing, and the way he arches against the bed, the way he arches against the bed... it's amazing. It's beautiful and viscerally satisfying, like scratching an itch or having a really good orgasm. There are a few spots of blood, where you overlap the cane, and you watch, transfixed, at the way they move when you hit him, again and again. 

“Yellow,” Mark gasps out, sobbing against the covers. “Yellow yellow yellow, fuck!”

You shake your head to get a hold of yourself, setting the cane down on the floor. You're gonna have to disinfect it – there are dots of blood on it. You sit on the bed next to him, petting his sweaty hair back from his head. “How are you doing?”

“Fuck,” he gasps, leaning against your thigh. “Fuck, this... wow.” He wriggles his ass experimentally, then winces. “I don't think I have any ass left. You've just flattened it. They're gonna call me ol' pancake ass.” 

“Do you want to stop?” You try to keep the disappointment out of your voice. You're not done. You're not near done, and that's what the two of you are trying to do. To just how much of your sadism he can, to see if the never ending fountain inside of you can run dry. To quiet down the dark things in the corners of your mind. “I mean, I can still see your ass. So it's not totally flattened out.”

“N-no,” Mark says, nuzzling against your hand as you stroke your fingers through his hair. “I just need a breather. I think that my ass might be a bit done for the day. Or the week. It might even forgive me, eventually.”

“Again with the independent body thinking. Scientists should study you.” You stroke his hair out of his eyes, gently. “What do you think you're up for?” You should get him a glass of water. When he lets you stand up – he's holding on to you, almost desperately. 

“I think I can take more on my front. Maybe more caning on my thighs, if you use a different cane. and don't hit my dick.” He stretches, wincing at the soreness in his... well, it probably feels like everything. You've taken beatings like this – you know how they can get. “If you hit my dick, then I am done for possibly ever. They'll put it on my grave. Here lies Mark – dead of a broken dick.”

“I can't break your dick by hitting it,” you tell him, poking him in the side.

“Yet! You hit hard enough that I'll just be sitting there with half a dick, and what do you even do with half a dick?” He snorts, rising up on his elbows, then hissing. “Ow.”

“Anything a no go?” As he's about to roll over, you put a hand on his shoulder. “No, wait until I've got a towel.”

“Am I bleeding?” He attempts to reach back and touch his ass, wincing at the sting of it. When he sees the blood on his finger,s he raises an eyebrow. “Wow. I knew you were hitting harder then usual. My ass is officially flatter than Danny's.” He looks at his fingers, then up at you. “Although, uh, what do I do with this?” 

“Nobody's ass is flatter than Danny's. Hold on,” you say, getting up. You hand him a tissue to wipe his hands with, then pause, about to leave the room. “I'm going to go get a towel. Are you okay on your own for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” says Mark, attempting to toss the balled up tissue in the garbage. He misses, because who can make a basket while flat on their belly? “It's not like I could walk off without dripping blood all over the place. You'd kill me for that.” 

You come back with a ratty old beach towel, some antiseptic wipes, and a big glass of water. Mark is still lying on his belly, the blood drying on his ass.

“Hey,” you say, standing behind him. “I”m gonna wipe you down, okay?” 

He gives a thumbs up. “I get a sexy person giving me a rub down. I should film this.”

You snort, pinching his back and smirking when he gasps. “Don't get too cocky. I could get the rubbing alcohol.” You carefully take out one of the wipes, rubbing across the welts on his ass. The blood isn't bad – a few pinpricks, if that. Just enough to be a pain in the neck, not enough to make things interesting. He shudders and shivers at the cold wipe across his overheated skin, and the way the antiseptic stings.

“That's worse than the cane,” he mumbles into the bed. Then – “Dear god, fuck no.” 

“Do you want me to cane you some more instead of wiping you down?” That would be fun, although your arm is beginning to get sore. Truth be told, you want to get a bit more... down and dirty. You want to feel his skin under your hands, making it bruise and swell without the aid of anything else. That's what whatever it is in your head is really calling for. 

“Nope,” he says quickly. “I'll, uh... I'll take the stinging. At least I'll have an ass left to sting.” 

“Well, alright,” you say, sitting back to really admire your handiwork. The welts are beginning to turn purple – he's gonna have trouble sitting down for a few days, at least. Hopefully longer. You like the way he inhales sharply when he sits down at his computer chair, unable to tell his millions of viewers why he's that much more vocal than usual.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, reaching out to hold your wrist. His thumb rests over your pulse, and his voice is quiet, soothing. “Am I doing something wrong? If there's anything you need me to do, I can try.” He pauses. “Apart from hitting my ass.”

You snort, rearranging your hand and squeezing his fingers. “Yeah, I'm fine.” It's almost true. “I'm the one who's supposed to take care of you, remember?” 

He snorts. “Since when do we do anything normally?” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are still full of concern. It makes something in your chest tighten, and that makes you feel... you're not sure. But you want to hurt him more – want to hurt him in ways that are terrifying, that he'd never survive. You don't want him to die. You'd never want him to die. You just want... you want to get as close as possible, get as much of a reaction. You don't even know why you want it. You just want it, so badly. 

You clear your throat, trying to get out of your mind. “Are you ready for more?” You stand up, somewhat unsteadily, and look over at the stuff on the chair. You think you know what you want to use next. Sort of. At least, a basic idea of it. 

“Sure! I am ready for more misery, and this is going to suck _so_ much. It's going to suck more than a vacuum at a blow job convention.” Mark is obviously faking some of the cheer, but you don't worry about it too much. You know he likes to put on bravado sometimes. Makes him feel better. Or something. It's kind of hard to think right now, truth be told, and you don't know if you want to go into your partner's deeper motivations. 

“Stand up,” you tell him, and maybe your voice is different, because he looks at you, a bit worried. He does stand up, though, watching you spread the towel out on the bed. 

“Are you alright?” He puts his hands on your shoulders, looking you in the face. “If you need to stop, I'm okay with that.” He'll be disappointed as well, if that happens – he likes seeing how much you get into it – even if he'll complain every step of the way.

“Yeah, I'm okay.” You shake your head again, trying to clear it. “It's, um... I'm getting into head space. Do you want me to stop?”

“Nope,” he says. “I'm still green. Green thing. Batteries. Whatever. Greener than Link's balls! What color are you?”

“Still green,” you say, and you kiss him on the mouth, gently. You want to bite him, want to draw blood and scratch his eyes out, want to... want to.... You shiver, pulling away from him. “Let's get back to business,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. Then you pause. “Wait, what? Does Link have green balls?”

“Why wouldn't he?” Mark waggles his eyebrows. “He's been chasing after Zelda long enough!”

“Wouldn't he have blue balls then?” This conversation is going weird places. You're not sure how they went there. A lot of conversations with Mark tend to go that way.

“No, he's not human,” Mark says. “Why wouldn't he have green balls?”

“Can I hit your face?” You look up at him, your eyes meeting his familiar brown ones. 

“Is that because I made that joke?” 

“Partially,” you say. 

“Okay,” Mark says, amicably enough. “I am accepting my punishment. But it's so worth it.”

You pat his cheek, gently, and then you slap him, hard enough that he loses some of his cool, some of his persona. He just stares at you, all big brown eyes and swelling cheek. You slap the other one, to match them, and you smile, with teeth. That was satisfying.

You've always had sadistic urges. Mark is the first person who hasn't been afraid of them. Or at least, hasn't actively expressed fear at them. You don't know if that means he's not afraid of you, but you're a bit too addled at present to go too into all of that. 

“Sure,” Mark says amicably, sprawling out on the bed like some kind of friendly big cat. “Bring it on. At least I'm not playing another Five Nights At ripoff.” 

You snort, going back to the chair and finding the stuff you need. You come back with the pile of it, and dump it on the bed, by the spread out towel. You catch Mark stealing a glance at it, and you snicker. “Check to see what the damage is gonna be?” 

“Maybe,” Mark says, his eyes going shifty. It's a joke, obviously it's a joke, but you still pinch him in the thigh for it, because you can. “It can't be worse than I'm imagining it, because there's not, like, fountaining blood.” That earns him a harder pinch.

You smile at the way he hisses his breath in at that, and you look at the spread before you. He's flat on his back, his knees akimbo and his cock at half mast between his legs. You look over at the assortment of things next to you – a ruler, another small cane, your over the finger claws - and none of them are suitable. All you want to do is sink your teeth into those thick, juicy thighs. 

Mark doesn't try to follow you with his eyes when you get on your knees in front of him, pulling him further off the bed, so that his legs dangle off of the edge, his whole body unsteady. He sighs, relaxing a bit when he feels your warm breath on his inner thighs, your arms resting on his knees. “This is gonna suck. You've got that look, and whenever you get that look I'm gonna _suffer_.” 

You bite him, hard enough that you taste the familiar copper, and you ignore the way he cries out, sucking on the skin and digging your teeth in. You let go with an obscene popping sound, and the teeth marks are already getting puffy, the spot in the center of the bite turning purple. You go for the other thigh, biting again, worrying at it like a puppy. Your teeth aren't that sharp, but your jaw is strong, and he arches under you, one fist beating at the bed as he mutters a stream of obscenities. You don't really catch most of them – it doesn't matter. The way the muscle under the skin bunches up is what matters, the way his sweat is salty and his blood tastes like metal and it yields reluctantly under your teeth.

You don't know how much time has passed – you're not even sure how many bite marks there are on his thighs – when he taps your head, gasping desperately. You let go of him, getting up on your knees to look at him. You know, distantly, that he's been babbling, gasping, his usual loud and desperate snark that flows out of him like so much water.

His cock is swollen and thick, pressed against his belly. His thighs are swollen and tender, bite marks ranging like leopard spots. You can see bruises beginning to bloom where your fingers were digging in as well. 

“N-no more, legs are... fuck....” Mark's hand goes back to his cock, wrapping around it. He squeezes, jerking himself desperately. Everything about him feels desperate, needy, just on the edge of... something. You're not sure what it is. You're not sure you care, and that's scarier. 

You don't say anything – just grab his cock, taking it into your mouth. You suck on it desperately, your teeth nipping him gently, drooling down your chin. You're delirious, high on pain and hurting, but you're not sure if you're the one hurting, or he is. It feels like all the anger, all of the pain that just curls itself in the back of your mind, it's all just unfolding, coming out of your mouth, your nails, your fingers. 

“I'm gonna... fuck, I can't... fuck...” Mark is sobbing, shaking against you. His thighs are tensing on either side of you, and you let go of him, pinching the head of his dick. He looks so pretty like this, lips worried to the point of almost bleeding, wincing in pain every time he shifts position. “Your mouth, fuck, it feels so good, please, please... fuck, you feel so... fuck, don't stop, don't stop, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum!”

“Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare,” you gasp, still pinching his cock. “You can't cum, you can't, you're not allowed to, fuck....” You're standing up, kicking of your underwear, grabbing the lube from the pile of stuff and squirting a dollop of it onto his dick. He whimpers from the cold shock of it, and you don't even care. You just jerk him off, wetting his dick. You should prepare yourself, make him finger you, add some lube. But that's not important, none of that is important. 

It hurts, when you take him in. You're not really ready, at least not physically. It's gonna hurt to go to the bathroom. But who the fuck cares? You don't care, all you care about is his face, and the way he shivers under you, sobbing, his hands going to hold on to your hips as you ride him desperately.

“Hit your chest,” you mumble. “I want to hit your chest, please, let me, please... let me hurt you, please, please.” You're almost crying. You're not sure if its sweat or tears dripping down your face.

“Do it,” he gasps, his hips working, forcing his dick into you. You can feel your own arousal building desperately, and you slap his chest, hard. Hard enough that he cries out again, and his dick twitches inside of you. “Do it, do it, please do it, fuck, please do it, hurt me however you want to, just do it to me, please!”

“You like it,” you mumble, and you slap him on the other side, harder. “You like it when I hurt you, you like it when I make you cry, you want me to hurt you and hurt you, you don't want me to ever stop.” You're hitting him with abandon, hard enough that your hands are starting to go a little numb. “Fuck, don't... you can't ever stop, you can't, don't ever stop, fuck, please!”

“I like it, yes, god, please....” He jerks against you, whining in the back of his throat, moaning from pain or from pleasure, or maybe some unholy mix of the two. “Give it to me, please, give me all of it. I fucking love it, I love whatever you give to me, whatever you do to me, please, just don't stop, please!”

You pause, closing your eyes to get your brain on a different track. “Do you mean it? All of it?”

He nods, staring into your face. His eyes are going to swallow you. “Tell me all of it, please. Do whatever you want to me, please!” His voice breaks, and he looks away.

“Even the scary stuff?” You swallow thickly, placing your palms on his chest and pressing down to keep your balance, feeling the heat of his skin, the red marks. 

“All of it, please,” he begs. “Please!” 

“I'm gonna....” you reach over blindly, fingers closing around the cold metal. “I'm gonna cut you open,” you gasp, pressing the knife against his belly. It's a blunt knife, one of the ones that can barely even cut through asparagus, but it's cold and it's metal and there are certain fears that are built into humanity. He gasps, shivering, and you press it harder. Enough to scratch him up. “Don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop, don't stop...” You're gabbling incoherently as you drag the knife up and down his chest, your fingernails digging in. A few of the scratches start bleeding, and you sob.

“Do it,” he mumbles. “Please, do it, do whatever you want to me, just do it, please! Hurt me however you want, use me however you want, please!”

“I'm gonna... I'm gonna cut you open, climb into your skin. I'm gonna kill you and hold you with me always, I'm gonna break your face, I'm gonna... fuck!” You hold the dull (well, duller) side of the knife against his throat and stare into his eyes, your other hand working desperately between your legs. Your eyes keep darting from the knife at his throat to the blood speckling his chest, to the way his face looks, terrified and aroused and full of compassion. 

“Do it,” he gasps, jerking his hips against you. “Do whatever you want, please, please, use me, hurt me, do whatever you want, please, please... fuck! Cut me open, slit my fucking throat, stick your hands in my gut, please do it, please, fuck, cut me, hurt me, kill me, do whatever you want to do to me, just don't _stop_!” His whole face tightens up as he cums, and you're glad that pregnancy isn't a thing to worry about as he pulses inside of you. 

You watch his face, and you press something in just the right way, and then you're cumming as well, hard and desperately, almost painfully, the shock waves filling you up as you coat his belly with your arousal. 

“Y-yellow,” Mark mumbles, reaching up and pulling you down onto his chest. It also rather forcibly pulls his dick out of you, which makes both of you wince, but you don't care right now, because you're face down into his chest, sticky with cum and blood and sweat. “I mean, unless you could go for more. Then I guess green. But you're... you look... you look like you're done. Are you done?”

“I'm sorry,” you mumble into his neck, and you're beginning to shake, holding on to him desperately. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“Why?” He nuzzles into your cheek, kissing you. He holds you tightly as you continue to shake. “That was pretty awesome. I didn't know my wussy self could take that much. I'm gonna be wrecked tomorrow, though.” 

“I sh-sh-shouldn't want to hurt you, I shouldn't want to... want to....” You're crying now, ugly crying, and isn't this a piece of bullshit? You shouldn't be the one who gets the aftercare. It makes you cry harder, because you feel like such a fuck up. “I shouldn't want to... I shouldn't have said all of that stuff.”

“There's no should or shouldn't,” Mark says quietly, rubbing your back. “It's alright.” He kisses the top of your head, stroking your back gently. “I know you'd never hurt me without consent. and I know you just... feel stuff strongly. It doesn't make you a bad person.” He chuckles. “You can't be the only one who likes to t-torture me, judging by my views, man. You're just a bit more... physical with it. It's okay.”

“Even though I was talking about cutting you open?” You wipe your nose on the back of your hand. 

“Even then,” he says, and kisses the top of your head again.“Do you want to take a shower?'

You giggle a bit in spite of yourself – you're a sweaty, snotty mess, with blood on your fingers and cum dripping down your leg. “That'd probably a good idea,” you say, standing up slowly. While Mark is the one who took most of the beating, you're sore as well, especially in the shoulders. 

“Hey,” he says, standing up. There's a lot of groaning and grunting, and now that you're off the high of Top space, you notice exactly how beaten up his is. You really did a number on him. A secret, shameful part of you wishes you could have done more. “You don't have to feel bad, okay? Fuck knows I like some weird shit, it's not like you're... I dunno, I can't think of anything crazy right now, sorry.” 

He grins, kind of dopily, and kisses your face, his stubble rough against your skin. He walks, slowly, towards the bathroom, and looks over his shoulder at you. “You coming, or what?”

You follow after him, feeling dazed, and more lucky than you thought you ever could be.


End file.
